dem 





BY 

EDMUND 

VANCE 
COOKE 











Book_^£dXTsf 

Copyright N°__^&13 

COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



Impertinent Poems 



Impertinent Poems 



By 

Edmund Vance Cooke 

w 

Author of " A Patch of Pansies," 
" Rimes to be Read," etc. 




BOSTON AND CHICAGO 

FORBES & COMPANY 

1903 



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1 15 1 C 



Copyright, igoj, by 
Edmund Vance Cooke 



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7/fo.stf Impertinent Poems 

are dedicated to whomever 

may like them. 



COVER DESIGNED BY ALTON PACKARD 



Colonial Press 

Electrotyped and Printed by C. H. Simonds & Co. 

Boston, Mass., U. S. A. 



A PRE - IMPERTINENCE 

Anticipating the intelligent critic of " Im- 
pertinent Poems," it may well be remarked 
that the chief impertinence is in calling 
them poems. Be that as it may, the editors 
and publishers of The Saturday Evening 
Post and Ainslee's Magazine share with the 
author the reproach of first promoting their 
publicity. That they are now willing to fur- 
ther reduce their share of the burden by 
dividing it with the present publishers en- 
titles them to the thanks of the author and 
the gratitude of the book-buying public. 

E. v. c. 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

/ Dead Men's Dust n 

.You Too 15 

• Don't You? 19 

, Don't Take Your Troubles to Bed 22 

/Good 24 

^Success 27 

,The Grill 31 

^Blood Is Red 34 

Diagnosis 36 

The Dilettante 38 

1 Desire . 40 

^Hush 43 

• Plug 46 

^Conscience Pianissimo 51 

, You Wait 55 

s Pass 58 

r Move 61 

^.Are You You? 65 

^The Bubble - Flies 67 

y How Did You Die? 70 



IMPERTINENT POEMS 

¥ 

DEAD MENS DUST 

You don't buy poetry. (Neither do I.) 

Why? 
You cannot afford it? Bosh! you spend 
Editions de luxe on a thirsty friend. 
You can buy any one of the poetry bunch 
For the price you pay for a business lunch. 
Don't you suppose that a hungry head, 
Like an empty stomach, ought to be fed? 
Looking into myself, I find this true, 
So I hardly can figure it false in you. 

And you don't read poetry very much. 

(Such 
Is my own case also. ) " But," you cry, 
" I have n't the time." Beloved, you lie. 



IMPERTINENT POEMS 

When a scandal happens in Buffalo, 
You ponder the details, con and pro; 
If poets were pugilists, could n't you tell 
Which of the poets licked John L.? 
If poets were counts, could your wife be 

fooled 
As to which of the poets married a Gould? 
And even my books might have some hope 
If poetry books were books of dope. 

" You 're a little bit swift," you say to me, 

"See!" 
You open your library. There you show 
Your " favorite poets," row on row, 
Chaucer, Shakespeare, Tennyson, Poe, 
A Homer unread, an uncut Horace, 
A wholly forgotten William Morris. 
My friend, my friend, can it be you thought 
That these were poets whom you had bought? 
These are dead men's bones. You bought 
their mummies 

12 



DEAD MEN'S DUST 

To display your style, like clothing dummies. 
But when do they talk to you? Some one 

said 
That these were poets which should be read, 
So here they stand. But tell me, pray, 
How many poets who live to-day 
Have you, of your own volition, sought, 
Discovered and tested, proved and bought. 
With a grateful glow that the dollar you 

spent 
Netted the poet his ten per cent. ? 

" But hold on," you say, " I am reading 
you." 
True, 
And pitying, too, the sorry end 
Of the dog I tried this on. My friend, 
I can write poetry — good enough 
So you would n't look at the worthy stuff. 
But knowing what you prefer to read 
I 'm setting the pace at about your speed, 

13 



IMPERTINENT POEMS 

Being rather convinced these truths will hold 

you 
A little bit better than if I 'd told you 
A genuine poem and forgotten to scold you. 
Besides, when I open my little room 
And see my poets, each in his tomb, 
iWith his mouth dust-stopped, I turn from 

the shelf 
And I must scold you, or scold myself. 



14 



YOU TOO 



YOU TOO 

Did you ever make some small success 

And brag your little brag, 
As if your breathing would impress 

The world and fix your tag 
Upon it, so that all might see 
The label loudly reading, " ME! " 
And when you thought you 'd gained 

the height 
And, sunning in your own delight, 
You preened your plumes and crowed 

"All right!" 
Did something wipe you out of sight? 
Unless you did this many a time 
You need n't stop to read this rime. 

When I was mamma's little joy 
And not the least bit tough, 



IMPERTINENT POEMS 

I 'd sometimes whop some other boy 

(If he were small enough) 
And for a week I 'd wear a chip, 
And at the uplift of a lip 
I 'd lord it like a pigmy pope, 
Until, when I had run my rope, 
Some bullet-headed little Swope 
Would clean me out as slick as soap. 
No doubt you were as bad, or worse, 
Or else you had not read this verse. 

All women were like pica print 
When I was young and wise; 

I 'd read their very souls by dint 
Of looking in their eyes. 

And in those limpid souls I 'd see 

A very fierce regard for me. 

And then — my, my, it makes me faint! — 

Peroxide and a pinkish paint 

Gave me the hard, hard heart complaint. 

I saw the sham, I felt the taint, 
16 



YOU TOO 



Yet if she 'd pat me once or twice, 
I 'd follow like a little fyce. 

I never played a little game 

And won a five or ten, 
But, presto ! I was not the same 

As common makes of men. 
Not Solomon and all his kind 
Held half the wisdom of my mind. 
And so I 'd swell to twice my size, 
And throw my hat across my eyes, 
And chew a quill, and wear red ties, 
And tip you off the stock to rise — 
Until, at last, I 'd have to steal 
The baby's bank to buy a meal. 

I speak as if these things remained 

All in the perfect tense, 
And yet I don't suppose I Ve gained 

A single ounce of sense. 
I scoff these tales of yesterday 
*7 



IMPERTINENT POEMS 

In quite a supercilious way, 
But by to-morrow I may bump 
Into some newer game and jump! 
You '11 think I am the only trump 
In all the deck until — kerslump ! 
Unless you '11 do the same some time, 
Of course you have n't read this rime. 



18 



DON'T YOU? 



DON'T YOU? 

When the plan that I have to grow suddenly- 
rich 

Grows weary of leg and drops into the ditch, 

And scheme follows scheme 

Like the web of a dream 

To glamor and glimmer and shimmer and 
seem, 

Only seem; 

And then, when the world looks unf adably 
blue, 

If my rival sails by, 

With his head in the sky, 

And sings " How is business? " why, what 
do I do? 

Well, I claim that I aim to be honest and 
true, 

But I sometimes lie. Don't you? 

19 



IMPERTINENT POEMS 

When something at home is decidedly wrong, 
When somebody sings a false note in the 

song, 
Too low or too high, 
And, you hardly know why, 
But it wrangles and jangles and runs ail 

awry, 

Aye, awry! 
And then, at the moment when things are 

askew, 
Some cousin sails in 
With a face all a-grin, 
And a " Do I intrude? Oh, I see that I do! " 
Well, then, though I aim to be honest and 

true, 
Still I sometimes lie. Don't you? 

When a man that I need has some foible or 

fad, 
Not very commendable, not very bad; 

Perhaps it 's his daughter, 

20 



DON'T YOU? 



And some one has taught her 

To daub up an " oil " or to streak up a 

"water"; 

What a "water"! 
And her grass is green green and her sky 

is blue blue, 
But her father, with pride, 
In a stagey aside 
Asks my " candid opinion." Then what do 

I do? 
Well, I claim that I aim to be honest and 

true, 
But I sometimes lie. Don't you? 



IMPERTINENT POEMS 



DON'T TAKE YOUR TROUBLES 
TO BED 

You may labor your fill, friend of mine, if 
you will; 
You may worry a bit, if you must; 
You may treat your affairs as a series of 
cares, 
You may live on a scrap and a crust ; 
But when the day 's done, put it out of your 

head ; 
Don't take your troubles to bed. 

You may batter your way through the thick 

of the fray, 
You may sweat, you may swear, you may 

grunt ; 
You may be a jack-fool if you must, but this 

rule 

22 



DON'T TAKE TROUBLES TO BED 

Should ever be kept at the front : 
Don't fight with your pillow, but lay down 

your head 
And kick every worriment out of the bed. 

That friend or that foe (which he is, I don't 

know), 
Whose name we have spoken as Death, 
Hovers close to your side, while you run or 

you ride, 
And he envies the warmth of your breath ; 
But he turns him away, with a shake of his 

head, 
When he finds that you don't take your 

troubles to bed. 



23 



IMPERTINENT POEMS 



GOOD 

You look at yourself in the glass and say : 

" Really, I 'm rather distingue. 

To be sure my eyes 

Are assorted in size, 

And my mouth is a crack 

Running too far back, 

And I hardly suppose 

An unclassified nose 

Is a mark of beauty, as beauty goes ; 

But still there 's something about the whole 

Suggesting a beauty of — well, say soul." 

And this is the reason that photograph-gal- 
leries 

Are able to pay employees' salaries. 

Now, this little mark of our brotherhood, 

By which each thinks that his looks are 
good, 

24 



GOOD 

Is laudable quite in you and me, 
Provided we not only look, but be. 

I look at my poem and you hear me say : 
" Really, it 's clever in its way. 
The theme is old 
And the style is cold. 
These words run rude; 
That line is crude ; 
And here is a rhyme 
Which fails to chime, 
And the metre dances out of time. 
Oh, it is n't so bright it '11 blind the sun, 
But it 's better than this by Such-a-one." 
And this is the reason I and my creditors 
Curse the " unreasoning whims " of edi- 
tors, 
And yet, if one writes for a livelihood, 
He ought to believe that his work is good, 
Provided the form that his vanity takes 
Not only believes, but also makes. 

2 5 



IMPERTINENT POEMS 

And there is our neighbor. We 've heard 

him say: 
" Really, I 'm not the commonest clay. 
Brown got his dust 
By betraying a trust; 
And Jones's wife 
Leads a terrible life ; 
While I have heard 
That Robinson's word 
Is n't quite as good as Gas preferred. 
And Smith has a soul with seamy cracks, 
For he talks of people behind their backs ! " 
And these are the reasons the penitentiary 
Holds open house for another century. 
True, we want no man in our neighborhood 
Who does n't consider his character good, 
But then it ought to be also true 
He not only knows to consider, but do. 



26 



SUCCESS 



SUCCESS 

It 's little the difference where you arrive ; 

The serious question is how you strive. 

Are you up to your eyes in a wild ro- 
mance? 

Does your lady lead you a dallying dance? 

Do you question if love be fate, or chance? 

Oh, the world will ask " Did he get the 
girl? " 

Though gentleman, coxcomb, clown or 
churl, 

Master or menial of passion's whirl. 

But it is nt that. The world will run 

Though you never bequeath it daughter or 
son, 

But what, O lover, will come to you 

If you be not chivalrous, honest, true? 

As far ahead as a man may think, 

27 



IMPERTINENT POEMS 

You can see your little soul shrivel and 
shrink. 

It 's not, " Do you win? " 
It is " What have you been? " 

Are you stripped for the world-old, world- 
wide race 

For the metal which shines like the sun's 
own face 

Till it dazzles us blind to the mean and 
base? 

Do you say to yourself, " When I have my 
hoard, 

I will give of the plenty which I have stored, 

If the Lord bless me, I will bless the Lord "? 

And do you forget, as you pile your pelf, 

What is the gift you are giving yourself? 

Though your mountain of gold may dazzle 
the day, 

Can you climb its height with your feet of 

clay? 

28 



SUCCESS 



Oh, it is n't the stamp on the metal you 

win; 
It 's the stamp on the metal you coin within. 

It 's not what you give ; 

It is "What do you live?" 

Are you going to sail the polar seas 
To the point of ninety and north degrees, 
Where the very words in your larynx freeze? 
Well, the mob may ask " Did he reach the 

pole? 
Though fair, or foul, did he touch the 

goal? " 
But if that be the spirit which stirs your 

soul, 
Off, off from the land below the zeroes; 
For you are not of the stuff of heroes. 
Ho! many a man can lead men forth 
To the fearsome end of the Farthest North, 
But can you be faithful for woe or weal 
In a land where nothing but self is leal? 

29 



IMPERTINENT POEMS 

Oh, it is n't " How far? " 
It is what you are. 

And it is n't your lookout where you arrive, 
But it 's up to you as to how you strive. 



3° 



THE GRILL 



THE GRILL 

Why do you? 

What 's it to you? 

I know you do, for I Ve seen the gruesome 
feeling simmer through you. 

I Ve seen it rise behind your eyes 

And take your features by surprise. 

I Ve seen it in your half -hid grin 

And the tilting-upness of your chin. 

Good-natured though you are and fair, as 
you have often boasted, 

Still you like to hear the other man artisti- 
cally roasted. 

Whenever the star secures the stage with the 

spotlight in the centre, 
Why should the anvil chorus think it has the 

cue to enter? 

31 



IMPERTINENT POEMS 

Whenever the prima donna trills the E 

above the clef, 
Why should the brasses orchestrate the bass 

in double f ? 

It 's funny, 

But it 's even money, 

You like to spy the buzzing fly in the other 
fellow's honey. 

Though you have said that honest bread 

Demands no honey on it spread, 

And if we eat the crusty wheat 

With appetite, it needs no sweet, 

Still I have noticed you were not at all in- 
clined to cry 

Because the man the bees had blest was 
bothered with the fly. 

Whenever the chef concocts a dish which sets 
the world to tasting, 
32 



THE GRILL 



Why does the cooking-school get out its 

recipes for basting? 
Whenever a sprinter beats the bunch from 

the pistol-shot, why is it 
The heavy hammer throwers get together 

for a visit? 

Excuse me! 

Did you accuse me 

Of turning the spit a little bit myself? 

Why, you amuse me! 

Did n't I scratch the sulphurous match 

And blow the flame to make it catch ? 

Did n't you trot to get the pot 

To heat the water good and hot? 

Then, seizing on our victim, if we found no 
greater sin, 

Did n't we call him " a lobster," and cheer- 
fully chuck him in? 



33 



IMPERTINENT POEMS 



BLOOD IS RED 

Some of us don't drink, some of us do; 
Some of us use a word or two. 
Most of us, maybe, are half-way ripe 
For deeds that would n't look well in type. 
All of us have done things, no doubt, 
We don't very often brag about. 
We are timidly good, we are badly bold, 
But there 's hope for the worst of us, I hold, 
If there be a few things we did n't do, 
For the reason that we so wanted to. 

Some of us sin on a smaller scale. 

(We don't mind minnows, we shy at a 

whale. ) 
We speak of a woman with half a sneer, 
We sit on our hands when we ought to cheer. 
The salad we mix in the bowl of the heart 

34 



BLOOD IS RED 

We sometimes make a little too tart 

For home consumption. We growl, we nag, 

But we 're not quite lost if we sometimes 

drag 
The hot words back and make them mild 
At the moment they fret to be running wild. 

Don't pin your faith on the man or woman 
Who never is tempted. We 're mostly 

human. 
And whoever he be who never has felt 
The red blood sing in the veins and melt 
The ice of convention, caste and creed, 
To the very last barrier, has no need 
To raise his brows at the rest of us. 
It bides its time in the rest of us, 
And well for him if he do not do 
That which the strength of him wants him 

to. 



35 



IMPERTINENT POEMS 



DIAGNOSIS 

You have a grudge against the man 
Who did the thing you could n't do. 
You hatched the scheme, you laid the plan, 
And yet you could n't push it through. 
You strained your soul and could n't win ; 
He gave a breath and it was easy. 
You smile and swallow your chagrin, 
But, oh, the swallow makes you queasy. 

I know your illness, for, you see, 
The diet never pleases me. 

Your dearest friend has made a strike, 
Has placed his mark above the crowd, 
Has won the thing which you would like 
And you are glad for him, and proud. 
Your tongue is swift, your cheek is red, 
36 



DIAGNOSIS 



If some one speak to his detraction, 
And yet, the fact the thing is said 
Affords you half a satisfaction. 

I see the workings of your mind 
Because my own is so inclined. 

You tell me fame is hollow squeak, 
You say that wealth is carking care ; 
And to live care-free a single week 
Is more than years of work and wear. 
Alexander weeps his highest place, 
Diogenes is happy sunning! 
What matters it who wins the race 
So you have had the joy of running? 

And yet, you covet prize and pelf. 
I know it, for I do, myself. 



37 



IMPERTINENT POEMS 



THE DILETTANTE 

To lie outright in the light of day 

I 'm not sufficiently skilful, 
But I practice a bit, in an amateur way, 

The lie which is hardly wilful; 
The society lie and the business lie 

And the lie I have had to double, 
And the lie that I lie when I don't know why 

And the truth is too much trouble. 
For this I am willing to take your blame 
Unless you have sometimes done the same. 

To be a fool of an Al brand 

I 'm not sufficiently clever, 
But I often have tried my 'prentice hand 

In a callow and crude endeavor ; 
A fool with the money for which I Ve toiled, 

A fool with the word I Ve spoken, 
38 



THE DILETTANTE 

And the foolish fool who is fooled and foiled 

On a maiden's finger broken. 
If you never yourself have made a slip, 
I 'm willing to watch you curl your lip. 

And yet my blood and my bone resist 

If you dub me fool and liar. 
I set my teeth and double my fist 

And my brow is flushed with fire. 
You I deny and you I defy 

And I vow I will make you rue it; 
And I lie when I say that I never lie, 

Which proves me a fool to do it! 
You may jerk your thumb at me and grin 
If liar and fool you never have been. 



39 



IMPERTINENT POEMS 



DESIRE 

Oh, the ripe, red apple which handily hung 
And flaunted and taunted and swayed and 

swung, 
Till it itched your fingers and tickled your 

tongue, 
For it was juicy and you were young! 
But you held your hands and you turned 

your head, 
And you thought of the switch which hung 

in the shed, 
And you did n't take it (or so you said), 
But tell me — did n't you want to? 

Oh, the rounded maiden who passed you 

*>y> 

Whose cheek was dimpled, whose glance 
was shy, 

40 



DESIRE 

But who looked at you out of the tail of 

her eye, 
And flirted her skirt just a trifle high! 
Oh, you were human and not sedate, 
But you thought of the narrow way and 

straight, 
And you did n't follow (or so you state) , 
But tell me — did n't you want to? 

Oh, the golden chink and the sibilant 

sign 
Which sang of honey and love and wine, 
Of pleasure and power when the sun's 

ashine 
And plenty and peace in the day's decline ! 
Oh, the dream was schemed and the play was 

planned ; 
You had nothing to do but to reach your 

hand, 
But you did n't (or so I understand), 
But tell me — did n't you want to? 
41 



IMPERTINENT POEMS 

Oh, you wanted to, yes ; and hence you crow 
That the Want To within you found its foe 
Which wanted you not to want to, and so 
You were able to answer always " No." 
So you tell yourself you are pretty fine clay 
To have tricked temptation and turned it 

away; 
But wait, my friend, for a different day! 
Wait till you want to want to! 



42 



HUSH 



HUSH 

What 's the best thing that you ever have 

done? 
The whitest day, 
The cleverest play 

That ever you set in the shine of the sun? 
The time that you felt just a wee bit proud 
Of defying the cry of the cowardly crowd 
And stood back to back with God? 
Aye, I notice you nod, 
But silence yourself, lest you bring me 

shame 
That I have no answering deed to name. 

What 's the worst thing that ever you 

did? 
The darkest spot, 
The blackest blot 

43 



IMPERTINENT POEMS 

On the page you have pasted together and 

hid? 
Ah, sometimes you think you 've forgotten 

it quite, 
Till it crawls in your bed in the dead of the 

night 
And brands you its own with a blush. 
What was it? Nay, hush! 
Don't tell it to me, for fear it be known 
That I have an answering blush of my 

own. 

But whenever you notice a clean hit made, 

Sing high and clear 

The sounding cheer 

You would gladly have heard for the play 

you played. 
And when a man walks in the way forbidden, 
Think you of the thing you have happily 

hidden 
And spare him the sting of your tongue. 

44 



HUSH 

Do I do that which I 've sung? 
Well, it may be I don't and it may be I do, 
But I 'm telling the thing which is good for 
you! 



45 



IMPERTINENT POEMS 



PLUG 

As you have n't asked me for advice, I '11 
give it to you now : 
Plug! 
No matter who or what you are, or where 
you are, the how 

Is plug. 
You may take your dictionary unabridged 

and con it through, 
You may swallow the Britannica and all its 

retinue, 
But here I lay it f . o. b. — the only word 
for you 

Is plug. 

Are you in the big procession, but away 
behind the band? 

Plug! 

46 



PLUG 

On the cobble, or asphaltum, in the mud or 

in the sand, 

Plug! 
Oh, you '11 hear the story frequently of how 

some clever man 
Cut clean across the country, so that now 

he 's in the van; 
You may think that you will do it, but I don't 

believe you can, 

So plug ! 

Are you singing in the chorus ? Do you want 

to be a star? 

Plug! 
You may think that you 're a genius, but I 

don't believe you are, 

So plug! 
Oh, you '11 hear of this or that one who was 

born without a name, 
Who slept eleven hours a day and dreamed 

the way to fame, 

47 



IMPERTINENT POEMS 

Who simply could n't push it off, so rapidly 
it came! 

But plug. 

Are you living in the valley? Do you want 
to reach the height? 
Plug! 
Where the hottest sun of day is and the cold- 
est stars of night? 
Plug! 
Oh, it may be you 're a fool, but if a fool 

you want to be, 
If you want to climb above the crowd so 

every one can see 
Just how a fool may look when he is at his 
apogee, 

Why, plug! 

Can you make a mile a minute? Do you 
want to make it two? 

Plug! 

4 8 



PLUG 

Are you good and up against it? Well, the 

only thing to do 

Is plug. 
Oh, you '11 find some marshy places, where 

the crust is pretty thin, 
And when you think you 're gliding out, 

you 're only sliding in, 
But the only thing for you to do is think of 

this and grin, 

And plug. 



There 's many a word that 's prettier that 
has n't half the cheer 
Of plug. 
It may not save you in a day, but try it for a 
year. 

Plug! 
And to show you I am competent to tell you 
what is what, 



49 



IMPERTINENT POEMS 

I assure you that I never yet have made a 

centre shot, 
Which surely is an ample demonstration that 

I ought 

To plug. 



5° 



CONSCIENCE PIANISSIMO 



CONSCIENCE PIANISSIMO 

You are honest as daylight. You 're often 

assured 
That your word is as good as your note — 

unsecured. 
We could trust you with millions unaudited, 

but — 

(Tut, tut! 

There is always a " but," 
So don't get excited,) I 'm pained to per- 
ceive 
It is seldom I notice you grumble or grieve 
When the custom-house officer pockets your 

tip 
And passes the contraband goods in your 

grip. 
You would scorn to be shy on your ante, I 'm 

certain, 

5i 



IMPERTINENT POEMS 

But skinning your Uncle you 're rather ex- 
pert in. 

Well, I 'm proud that no taint of the sort 
touches me. 

(For I 've never been over the water, you 
see.) 

Your yardstick 's a yard and your goods are 
all wool; 

Your bushel 's four pecks and you measure 
it full. 

You are proud of your business integrity, 
yet — 

(Don't fret! 

There is always a " yet,") 

I never noticed a sign of distress, or 

Disturbance in you, when the upright as- 
sessor 

Has listed your property somewhere about 

Half what you would take were you selling 
it out. 

52 



CONSCIENCE PIANISSIMO 

You 're as true to the world as the world to 

its axis, 
But you chuckle to swear off your personal 

taxes. 
As for me, I would scorn to do any such 

thing, 
(Though I may have considered the question 

last spring.) 

You have notions of right. You would 

count it a sin 
To cheat a blind billionaire out of a pin. 
You have a contempt for a pettiness, still — 
(Don't chill! 

There is always a " still,") 
I never have noticed you storm with neglect 
Because the conductor had failed to collect, 
Or growl that the game was n't run on the 

square 
When your boy in the high school paid only 
half-fare. 

S3 



IMPERTINENT POEMS 

The voice of your conscience is lusty and 

audible, 
But a railroad — good heavens ! why, that 's 

only laudable. 
Of course, I am quite in a different class ; 
For me, it is painful to ride on a pass! 



54 



YOU WAIT 



YOU WAIT 

When you and I were little boys, 
Afraid of girls and fond of toys, 
It often chanced that some distress 
Imposed upon our littleness. 
Perhaps we entered in the lists 
Against some boy with faster fists; 
Perhaps the teacher kept us in 
Not for our own, but others' sin; 
Perhaps parental wrath was dealt 
(Against all rules) below the belt; 
And, smarting in our childish hate, 
We threatened " Never mind! you wait! 
I '11 make you sorry some day, when 
I get to be a big man. Then 
I — well — I will." 

And now that we are little men, 
It likewise happens, now and then, 

55 



IMPERTINENT POEMS 

We have a round or two with Fate 
And find we 're somewhat underweight. 
Perhaps your services are spurned, 
Perhaps my poem is returned; 
Perhaps some hand preempts the peach 
Just ripening within your reach ; 
Perhaps some critic gently swats 
Me somewhere in the vital spots. 
And then, although we dryly grin, 
The little voice is heard within ; — 
"I '11 show these fellows some day, when 
I get to be a big man. Then 
I — well — I will." 

And though a larger place we fill, 
The Nemesis is working still. 
The author's favorite book is cursed, 
The judge's ruling is reversed; 
The Congressman sits meekly by 
Unfavored of the Speaker's eye ; 
The Senator stands down the line 
56 



YOU WAIT 



When Cabinet officials dine ; 
The President's knee becomes infirm 
Before the god, Another Term. 
And in the inmost heart of each 
There cries again the boyish speech ; - 
" It will be different some day when 
I am a great big man. Ah, then 
I — well — J will." 



57 



IMPERTINENT POEMS 



PASS 

Did somebody give you a pat on the back? 

Pass it on! 
Let somebody else have a taste of the smack, 

Pass it on! 
If it heightens your courage, or lightens your 

pack, 
If it kisses your soul, with a song in the 

smack, 
Maybe somebody else has been dressing in 
black ; 

Pass it on! 
God gives you a smile, not to make it a 
yawn; 

Pass it on! 

Did somebody show you a slanderous mess? 
Pass it by! 

58 



PASS 

When a brook 's flowing by, will you drink 
at the cess? 

Pass it by! 
Dame Gossip 's a wanton, whatever her 

dress ; 
Her sire was a lie and her dam was a guess, 
And a poison is in her polluting caress; 

Pass it by ! 
Unless you 're a porker, keep out of the sty. 

Pass it by! 



Did somebody give you an insolent word? 

Pass it up! 
'T is the creak of a cricket, the pwit of a 

bird; 

Pass it up! 
Shake your fist at the sea! Is its majesty 

blurred ? 
Blow your breath at the sky! Is its purity 

slurred? 

59 



IMPERTINENT POEMS 

But the shallowest puddle, how easily stirred I 

Pass it up ! 
Does the puddle invite you to dip in your 
cup? 

Pass it up! 



60 



MOVE 



MOVE 

We are on the main line of a crowded track ; 
We 've got to go forward; we can't go 
back 
And run the risk of colliding : 
We must make schedule, not now and again, 
But always, forever and ever, amen! 

Or else switch off on a siding. 
If ever we loaf, like a car in the yard, 
Does n't somebody bump us, and bump us 
hard, 

I wonder? 

You Ve succeeded in building a pretty fair 

trade, 
But can you sit down in the grateful shade 

And kill time cutting up capers? 
Or must you hustle and scheme and sweat, 

61 



IMPERTINENT POEMS 

Though the shine be fine or the weather be 
wet, 
And keep your page in the papers? 
If ever you fail to be pulling the strings, 
Are n't some of your rivals around doing 
things, 

I wonder? 

Your a first-class salesman. You know your 

line; 
Your house is good and your goods are 
fine, 
So you fill your book with orders, 
But can you get quit of the ball and chain, 
Or are you in jail on a railroad train, 
With blue-coated men for warders? 
If you sent your samples and cut out the 

trip, 
Would n't somebody else soon be lugging 
your grip, 

I wonder? 
62 



MOVE 

You are starred on the bills and are chummy 

with fame; 
The man on the corner could tell you your 
name 
At three o'clock in the morning, 
But can you depend on the mind of the mob? 
Can you tell your press-agent to look for 
a job, 
Or give your manager warning? 
Should you lie down to sleep, with your 

laurels beneath, 
Would n't somebody else soon be wearing 
your wreath, 

I wonder? 

Oh, I 'm willing to work, but I wish I could 

lag, 
Not feeling as if I were " it " for tag, 

Or last in f ollow-my-leader ; 
There is only one spot where, I have n't a 
doubt, 

63 



IMPERTINENT POEMS 

Nobody will try to be crowding me out, 

And that is under the cedar. 
And even in that place, will Gabriel's 

trump 
Come nagging along and be making me 
jump! 

I wonder? 



64 



ARE YOU YOU? 



ARE YOU YOU? 

Are you a trailer, or are you a trolley? 
Are you tagged to a leader through wisdom 

and folly? 
Are you Somebody Else, or You? 
Do you vote by the symbol and swallow it 

"straight"? 
Do you pray by the book, do you pay by 

the rate? 
Do you tie your cravat by the calendar's 

date? 
Do you follow a cue? 

Are you a writer, or that which is worded? 
Are you a shepherd, or one of the herded? 

Which are you — a What or a Who? 
It sounds well to call yourself " one of the 
flock," 

65 



IMPERTINENT POEMS 

But a sheep is a sheep after all. At the 

block 
You 're nothing but mutton, or possibly 
stock. 
Would you flavor a stew? 

Are you a being and boss of your soul ? 
Or are you a mummy to carry a scroll? 

Are you Somebody Else, or You? 
When you finally pass to the heavenly 

wicket 
Where Peter the Scrutinous stands on his 

picket, 
Are you going to give him a blank for a 

ticket? 
Do you think it will do? 



66 



THE BUBBLE-FLIES 



THE BUBBLE -FLIES 

Let me read a homily 
Concerning an anomaly 

I view 

In you. 
Whatever you are striving for, 
Whatever you are driving for, 
'T is not alone because you crave 
To be successful that you slave 
To swim upon the topmost wave. 
You care less what your station is, 
But more what your relation is. 
To be a bit above the rest ! 
To be upon, or of, the crest! 
Ah! that is where the trouble lies 
Which stirs you little bubble-flies. 

(I sneer these sneers, but just the same 
I keep my fingers in the game.) 
67 



IMPERTINENT POEMS 

See! you have eat-and-drinkables 
And portables and thinkables 

And* yet 

You fret. 
For what? Let 's reach the heart of you 
And see the funny part of you. 
For what? I find the soul and seed 
Of it is not your lack or need, 
Or even merely vulgar greed. 
Gold? You may have a store of it, 
But — some one else has more of it. 
Fame? Pretty things are said of you, 
But — some one is ahead of you. 
Place? You disprize your easy one 
For some one's high and breezy one. 

(I smile these smiles to soothe my soul, 
But squint one eye upon the goal. ) 

Tell me! what 's your capacity 
Compared to your voracity? 
68 



THE BUBBLE-FLIES 

I guess 

'T is less. 
And so I strike these attitudes 
And tender you these platitudes ; — 
Not wishing wealth, or spurning it, 
Not hoarding it, or burning it 
Is equal to the earning it. 
Life's race is in the riding it, 
Not in the word deciding it. 
And after all is said and uttered 
The keenest taste is bread-and-buttered. 

(And yet — and yet — my palate aches 
For pallid pie and pasty cakes!) 



6 9 



IMPERTINENT POEMS 



HOW DID YOU DIE ? 

Did you tackle that trouble that came your 
way 

With a resolute heart and cheerful? 
Or hide your face from the light of day 

With a craven soul and fearful? 
Oh, a trouble 's a ton, or a trouble 's an ounce, 

Or a trouble is what you make it, 
And it is n't the fact that you 're hurt that 
counts, 

But only how did you take it? 

You are beaten to earth? Well, well, what *s 
that? 

Come up with a smiling face. 
It 's nothing against you to fall down flat, 

But to lie there — that 's disgrace. 



70 



HOW DID YOU DIE? 

The harder you 're thrown, why the higher 
you bounce; 
Be proud of your blackened eye! 
It is n't the fact that you 're licked that 
counts ; 
It 's how did you fight — and why? 

And though you be done to the death, what 
then? 

If you battled the best you could, 
If you played your part in the world of men, 

Why, the Critic will call it good. 
Death comes with a crawl, or comes with a 
pounce, 

And whether he 's slow or spry, 
It is n't the fact that you 're dead that counts, 

But only how did you die? 

THE END. 



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